Looking Good Dead

  A woman in her forties, wearing a black smock over a grey leotard and with slightly mad hair, stood on the other side of the door, collecting tickets. Grace took his wallet out of his pocket, dug his fingers into it and retrieved his ticket, which he had purchased several weeks earlier.

  He felt nervous. A disconcerting jangling deep inside him seemed to strip away his natural confidence. It was always the same before he saw a medium or clairvoyant, or any other kind of psychic. The anticipation. The hope he held in his heart that this one might be different, that this one finally, after close on nine long years, would have the answer.

  Either a message, or a location, or a sign.

  Something that would tell him whether Sandy was dead or alive. That was the most important thing he needed to know. Sure, there would be all kinds of other questions that would then follow whichever answer he got. But first, please, he needed that answer.

  Maybe tonight?

  He handed over his ticket and followed three nervously chatting girls up the narrow staircase. They looked like sisters, the youngest in her late teens, the oldest in her mid-twenties. He passed an unpainted door marked quiet, therapy in session, and entered a room that had about twenty assorted plastic chairs squeezed in, forming an L-shape with a gap where he presumed the clairvoyant would stand. There were blue blinds, pot plants on the shelves, and a print of a Provençal landscape on one wall.

  Most of the chairs were already taken. Two young girls were with their mum, a pudding-faced lady in a baggy knitted top, who seemed to be fighting back tears. Next to them sat a long-haired earth mother of about seventy in a floral top, denim skirt and glasses the size of a snorkeller’s mask.

  Grace found a free chair next to two men in their late twenties, both wearing jeans and sweatshirts. One, grossly overweight, with ragged hair that reminded Grace of the comedian Ken Dodd, was staring blankly ahead and chewing gum. The other, much thinner, was sweating profusely and brandishing a can of Pepsi Cola in his hand as if it afforded him some status. Grace overheard some of their conversation; they were discussing electric screwdrivers.

  Another mother and daughter entered the room and took the remaining two chairs, next to him. The daughter, thin as a rake and dressed to party in black trousers and red blouse, reeked of a scent that smelled, to Grace, of lavatory freshener. The mother, equally dolled up, looked like a computer-aged image of the daughter twenty years on. Grace was familiar with the technique; it was used frequently in the search for missing persons. A year ago he’d had a photograph of Sandy put through the process and been staggered by how much someone could change in just eight years.

  There was an air of expectation in the room. Grace glanced around at the faces, wondering why they were all here; some because they were recently bereaved, he guessed, but probably most were just lost souls in need of guidance. And they had each forked out ten quid to meet a complete stranger with no medical or sociological qualifications, who was about to tell each of them stuff that could alter their entire approach to life.

  Stuff that the spirits channelled through Brent Mackenzie, or so he would claim. Grace knew; he’d seen it all.

  And yet he kept coming back for more.

  It was like a drug: just one more fix and then he would stop. But of course he would never stop, not until the day he found out the truth about Sandy’s disappearance. Maybe the spirits would tell Brent Mackenzie tonight; maybe the clairvoyant would do what all those before him had failed to do, and pluck it out of the ether.

  Roy Grace knew the reputational risk he ran by pursing his interest in mediums and clairvoyants, but he was not the only police officer in the UK to regularly consult them, not by a long way. And, regardless of what the cynics said, Grace believed in the supernatural. He had no option. He had seen a ghost – two ghosts, in fact – many times during his childhood.

  Every summer he used to go and stay for a week with his uncle and aunt, in their cottage in Bembridge on the Isle of Wight. In a grand town house opposite two very sweet old ladies used to wave at him from a bay window on the top floor. It wasn’t until years later, revisiting Bembridge after a long absence, that he learned that the house had been empty for over forty years – the two old ladies who waved at him had committed suicide in 1947. And it hadn’t been his imagination; other people had seen them also, including his uncle and aunt.

  The audience were quietening now; the two men beside him seemed to have finished their discussion about electric screwdrivers. It was 7.45 p.m. exactly. Behind him he heard the hiss of a ring pull being tugged on a can of drink. A mobile phone beeped an incoming text message, and he saw the earth mother delve into her macramé handbag, pull the phone out and switch it off, her face reddening.

  Then the medium sauntered in, with all the presence of a man looking for the door to a pub urinal. About forty years old, standing a good six foot four inches tall, he was dressed in a baggy orange T-shirt with a string of beads around his neck, fawn chinos and shiny white trainers. He had buzz-cut hair, a few days growth of stubble, a prizefighter’s broken nose and a massive beer belly, and, Grace noticed, he was wearing a very expensive-looking watch. For some moments he appeared not to notice that he had walked into a crowded room. Grace even began to wonder whether this actually was the clairvoyant.

  Then, facing the blinds, Brent Mackenzie spoke. His voice was thin and reedy, far too small for such a large man, but very earnest. ‘I’m not using my memory tonight,’ he said. ‘I want to do my best for all of you. I will have a message for each of you tonight; that’s a promise.’

  Grace glanced around; just a sea of silent, rapt faces, waiting.

  ‘My first message is for a lady in here called Brenda.’ Now the clairvoyant turned and scanned the room. The pudding-faced mother put her hand up.

  ‘Ah, Brenda, love, there you are! If I said there was a move imminent in your life, would that be right?’

  The woman thought for a moment, then nodded enthusiastically.

  ‘Yeah, that’s what the spirits are telling me. It’s a big move, isn’t it?’

  She looked at each of her daughters in turn, as if for confirmation. Both of them frowned. Then she looked at the medium. ‘No,’ she said.

  There was an awkward silence. After a few moments the medium said, ‘I’m being told it is a bigger move than you realize at the moment. But you are not to worry about it; you are doing the right thing.’ He nodded reassuringly at her, then closed his eyes and took a pace back.

  Grace watched him, feeling uncomfortable about the man. This was a typical ploy of a medium – to manipulate what he said when it did not resonate.

  ‘I’ve got a message for a Margaret,’ Brent Mackenzie said, opening his eyes and scanning the room. A rather mousy little woman in her late thirties who Grace had not previously noticed put up her hand.

  ‘Does the name Ivy mean anything to you, darling?’

  The woman shook her head.

  ‘OK. What about Ireland. Does Ireland mean anything?’

  Again she shook her head.

  ‘The spirits are very definite about Ireland. I think you will be going there soon even if you don’t realize it at the moment. They say you will go to Cork. There’s someone who will change your life who is in Cork.’

  She looked blank.

  ‘I’ll come back to you, Margaret,’ the clairvoyant said. ‘I’m being interrupted – they are very rude sometimes in the spirit world; they get very impatient when they have a message for someone. I’m getting a message here for Roy.’

  Grace felt a jolt as if he had plunged his finger into an electrical socket. Brent Mackenzie was stepping towards him, staring hard at him. He felt his face burn and all his composure went; he stared back at the medium now towering over him, feeling confused, helpless.

  ‘I’ve got a gentleman with me, I think he might be your father. He’s showing me a badge he used to wear. Does that mean something?’

  Maybe, Grace thought, but I’m not giving you any clues. I??
?m paying you to tell ME things.

  Grace stared at him blankly.

  ‘He’s showing me his helmet. I think he was a police officer before he passed. He has passed?’

  Grace gave him a reluctant nod.

  ‘He tells me he’s very proud of you, but you are having a difficult time at the moment. Someone is blocking your career. He is showing me a woman – with short blonde hair? Is her name Vespa, like the motor scooter?’

  Now Grace was mesmerized. Alison Vosper? He desperately wanted to speak to the man, to tell him the name Sandy. But his courage had deserted him. And he did not want to lead him. Was Brent Mackenzie going to tell him something about Sandy? Some message from his father about her?

  ‘Your dad’s showing me something, Roy. It’s a small insect. Looks like a beetle. He is quite agitated about this beetle. He’s not very clear—’ The clairvoyant cupped his head in his hands, turned round once, then again. ‘I’m sorry, I’m losing him. He said it could save something.’

  Grace, staring up at him, suddenly found the courage to speak. ‘What exactly did he say it could save?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Roy, I’ve lost him.’ The medium looked at someone else. ‘I’ve got a message for Bernie.’

  Grace barely noticed. He was thinking. The man had got two hits. His father and the beetle. He said it could save something.

  He would grab the clairvoyant at the end of the session, no matter how tired he was, and pump him for more.

  What did the man mean? What the hell could it save? His career? Another life?

  But he did not have to worry about getting hold of Brent Mackenzie when the evening ended. The clairvoyant, wearing a long anorak over his T-shirt, was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Roy, isn’t it?’ he said.

  Grace nodded.

  ‘I don’t normally do this, but could we have a word in private?’

  ‘Yes, sure.’

  Grace followed him into a tiny consulting room containing a desk, a couple of chairs and several dozen white candles, and the clairvoyant closed the door behind them. In this room he seemed even bigger, towering over Grace.

  Remaining standing, Mackenzie said, ‘Look, I’m sorry; we didn’t have a very satisfactory session. I didn’t want to say too much in there, in front of everyone, you know. Some things are private. This doesn’t often happen to me, but I picked up some really bad feeling about you. I’m talking about this beetle thing I saw; I can’t get it out of my head. Like one of those you see in ancient Egyptian writings.’

  Tilting his head up at him, Grace said, ‘A scarab?’

  ‘Yeah, exactly. Scarab beetle.’

  Grace nodded. ‘Yes, that makes sense.’

  The medium gave him a strange look. ‘Makes sense?’

  ‘It’s to do with work. I can’t really talk about it.’

  ‘You’re a copper, aren’t you?’

  ‘Does it show?’

  The clairvoyant smiled. ‘I was a copper myself, for ten years. Manchester CID.’

  ‘You were?’

  ‘Yeah, well. Long story. Save it for another day. The thing is, mate, they’re telling me you are in real danger. Something to do with this scarab beetle. You need to watch your back.’

  33

  By the time Tom had figured out how to light the barbecue, it was already past the children’s bedtime. And by the time he had finally cooked their sausages and burgers, Jessica was sound asleep and Max was grizzling.

  And now he had drunk too much rosé wine, and he had to finalize the quotation for twenty-five Rolex Oyster watches engraved with a logo in a microdot, and email it to Ron Spacks. The DVD distribution giant had confirmed he was dead serious about placing the order, and Tom had promised the quotation would be with him no later than tonight. He had found a legitimate supply source that would give Spacks a bargain, and net him close to £35,000 profit on the contract. Not only a very sweet deal, it would be a massive help to his business – and his life – at this moment.

  He stared fondly at Kellie, who was lying in front of the television, watching Jonathan Ross interview a rock star Tom had never heard of. Lady, as usual, was sitting by the front door with her lead in her mouth.

  He hauled himself up the stairs, gripping the banister rail for all he was worth, as if he was climbing Everest the hard way.

  Tom opened Jessica’s bedroom door. Light from the landing spilled in, throwing shadows around. She was fast asleep, her face turned towards him, arm around her large, soft teddy, breathing in, a steady long and slow rhythmic hiss, then out with a sharp phut.

  Something gripped his chest like a vice, and his heart. He stood motionless, as if all time in the universe was frozen. This was his daughter. His child. His creature that he had brought into the world. His little person.

  Jessica.

  God, he loved her to bits. People said that parents had favourites but he didn’t, he could honestly say that.

  He blew Max a kiss, closed the door, and with a heavy heart went into his den to finalize the Ron Spacks figures.

  When he had checked, then double-checked the email and sent it, he made his way back downstairs. Jonathan Ross on the television was talking about the size of willies. Kellie was now fast asleep, empty wine glass on the floor, a half-eaten box of Milk Tray on the sofa beside her.

  After they had put the kids to sleep, he had told her about the website and the subsequent email, and then the photograph of Janie Stretton in the paper tonight.

  They had watched the Ten O’Clock News together, and seen the poor young woman featured along with footage of the police search in Peacehaven, and a plea by a Detective Superintendent Roy Grace of the Brighton CID for anyone with information to step forward.

  Kellie had really surprised him. He thought he knew her much better than he apparently did. He had imagined she would put the safety of her family first. Particularly after he told her about the threatening email.

  She had taken less than a couple of minutes to make up her mind. ‘Imagine that was Jessica in twenty years time,’ she had said. ‘Imagine we were the parents, desperate for justice to be done. Now imagine, knowing all that, you are a witness, maybe the only witness. Your stepping forward might make the difference between the killer being caught – and being prevented from ever killing again – and destroying the lives of all those related to the victim. Imagine if Jessica was murdered by a killer who could have been stopped if only someone had been brave enough to step forward.’

  He went through into the kitchen, took out a bottle of his favourite Bowmore whisky and poured himself several fingers. A few hours ago he had made the decision that he would abide by Kelly’s view.

  But then he had been expecting her to tell him that he needed to put the safety of the family first. And if that meant doing nothing, that would be preferable to anything that put them in jeopardy. Instead she was completely adamant he should go to the police, regardless of the consequences.

  Sitting on a bar stool, he watched his reflection in the window. He saw a hunched man raise a glass of whisky to his lips and drink; he saw the man set the glass back down.

  He saw the total despair in the man’s face.

  He drained his whisky, then went back into the living room to wake Kellie up. They had to talk more.

  They talked long into the night, then finally, exhausted, Tom tried to sleep. But he was still awake at three o’clock. And at four. Tossing. Turning. Fretting, dry, parched, with a searing headache.

  Tonight they were safe. Tonight he did not have to worry about threats. Kellie’s view was that the police would protect them. Tom did not share her confidence.

  Dawn was breaking. At five he heard a hiss of tyres, a whine, a clank of bottles. In another hour or so the kids would be stirring, running into their bedroom, jumping into their bed. Saturday. Normally he loved Saturdays, his favourite day of the week.

  Kellie told him he could give the information to the police in confidence, and that the police w
ould respect that. How would anyone find out he had been talking to them?

  ‘Are you OK, hon?’ Kellie spoke suddenly.

  ‘I’m still awake,’ he said. ‘I haven’t slept a wink.’

  ‘Nor have I.’

  He put out his hand, found hers, squeezed it. She squeezed back. ‘I love you,’ he said.

  ‘I love you, too.’ Then after a pause, she asked, ‘Have you made a decision?’

  He was silent for some moments. Then he said quietly, ‘Yes.’

  34

  Roy Grace was having a sleepless night, also. An endless list of things he needed to check for Operation Nightingale churned through his brain. As well as the words of Brent Mackenzie.

  The thing is, mate, they’re telling me you are in real danger. Something to do with this scarab beetle. You need to watch your back.

  What did he mean? Maybe he had just picked up the vibe of the scarab, which was preying heavily on his mind?

  Then his thoughts went back to Janie Stretton. He pushed away all the emotion of her distraught father – he had become hardened to those things over the years. Perhaps more hardened than he liked, but maybe that was the only way to cope. He was thinking about what had been done to her. What was the sense in removing her head but leaving a hand? Other than that it was some kind of message? To whom? The police? Or perhaps a sick trophy?

  And why the scarab beetle?

  For the killer to show off his – or her – intellect?

  Then his thoughts turned darkly to the warning from Alison Vosper, and the knowledge that this case was the Last Chance Saloon for him. To keep his job and his life here in Brighton, he needed to find Janie’s killer with no fuck-ups, no newspaper headlines about cops dabbling in the occult and nobody killed in a car chase.